138 WHERE ROLLS THE OREGON 



any quick, unwonted sight or sound would stam- 

 pede them. The sneezing of a horse, the flare of 

 a match, would be enough to send the whole four 

 thousand headlong — blind, frenzied, trampling 

 — till spent and scattered over the plain. 



And so, as he rode. Wade began to sing. The 

 rider ahead of him took up the air and passed it 

 on until, above the stepping stir of the hoofs rose 

 the faint voices of the men, and all the herd was 

 bound about by the slow plaintive measures of 

 some old song. It was not to soothe their savage 

 breasts that the riders sang to the cattle, but rather 

 to preempt the dreaded silence, to relieve the 

 tension, and so to prevent the shock of any sud- 

 den startling noise. 



So they sang and rode and the night wore on 

 to one o'clock, when Wade, coming up on the 

 rim-rock side, felt a cool breeze fan his face, and 

 caught a breath of fresh, moist wind with the 

 taste of water in it. 



He checked his horse instantly, listening as the 

 wind swept past him over the cattle. But they 

 must already have smelled it, for they had ceased 

 their milling, the whole herd standing motionless, 

 the indistinct forms close to him in the dark show- 



